


Bound

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Endgame Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Cares About Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Are Soulmates, Getting Together, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Supernatural Illnesses, Touch-Starved, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg is So Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 07:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26469529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Something whispers against the shell of his ear. A changing wind tumbling down from the mountain and wrapping around his shoulders like a cloak.Look back.He shakes his head – as if someone were actually trying to speak to him. The words wisp away.Why in the names of all of the gods would he look back? The dirt path and all of its stones and rocks press into the soles of his boots. No, he thinks firmly.And his chest is tight and his stomach churns; but he keeps walking.--After the Mountain, Jaskier wants to put as much distance as he can between him and the Witcher. Only, with every step he takes, the more tired and weaker he becomes. Eventually, he collapses. Unknown to him, Destiny has tied him to a soulmate - a bond broken on a mountain top after an ill-fated dragon hunt. And now Destiny is trying to knit them back together again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 74
Kudos: 1131





	1. Chapter 1

Echoes still tremble down from the mountain. Harsh words sharper than any blade cut and bleed his skin. He keeps his back straight, though. Head high and shoulders square while his heart stutters and cracks in his chest. A lump threatens to clog his throat, smothering. He swallows. And breathes.

There’s a village at the foot of the mountain. And a patchwork of fields and meadows beyond that. His legs hum with pain. He’s been walking – stumbling, marching – for what seems like hours. His legs might just give out as soon as he steps off of the mountain. So he aims for the village – hoping, praying to every god and goddess he can remember the name of, that a Witcher won’t blow in with the next wind. His stomach twists at the thought of it.

Something whispers against the shell of his ear. A changing wind tumbling down from the mountain and wrapping around his shoulders like a cloak.

 _Look back_.

He shakes his head – as if someone were actually trying to speak to him. The words wisp away.

Why in the names of all of the gods would he look back? The dirt path and all of its stones and rocks press into the soles of his boots. _No_ , he thinks firmly.

And his chest is tight and his stomach churns; but he keeps walking.

* * *

Who only knows how much time passes.

Days start to bleed into each other once he puts as much distance between him and that mountain as possible.

He takes breaks only when his legs and feet can’t carry him any further. When they thrum with pain and tighten and seize, he sets up a small camp while out on a roadside or takes a seat at a tavern table.

His fingers twitch. His lute, still encased and silent, stares back at him. The days and nights have been quiet and while mindlessly wandering from one town or village to the next, or staring up at the scattering of stars against an ink-black sky, his tongue turns scathing and sour.

Melodies and lyrics come to him then, in the calmer moments when it’s just him and no one else. Feverish scrawls in his notebooks, etched out words and questionable tunes and notes. It’s so unlike anything he’s ever done before. Inspiration would strike and he could soundboard off of someone but now, he looks up at the other side of his camp, or to the other side of his table, and sees nothing. No one.

A tavern might hear them one day. When his mind isn’t fogged and his muscles tired and sore. Until then, he’s just about content to lull well-known ballads and reel polkas and shanties for those living near the harbours just for food and board. Most innkeeps are happy to give it to him anyway. Music pulls in a crowd, and a crowd means flowing ale and mead and meals to soak it all up. Even the ones who dismiss his offer with rolling eyes and a waving hand let him play until he finds himself chucked out on to the street. Food pelted at him becomes dinner, and he sleeps where he can manage. Stables, mostly. The rare bed of a merchant or a grocer on other nights.

And those mornings are the worst. He wakes with the sun, provided that he has slept at all, and he winces against the brightness. Even the earliest, watery morning light seers his eyes. His mouth is dry and tacky and his muscles wane with pain. His bedmate never rises, slumbering contently until late morning – when he’s long gone.

And the feeling never goes away. He isn’t sick, he knows that much. Despite weathering cold and wet nights outside and snarling winds in the day, he doesn’t feel sick. But he’s so tired. Every step is almost a stagger or stumble. City guards have even asked him about how much he’s had to drink at the local tavern or inn.

Which...is fair. Not that he has totally lost himself to wine or ale or mead or spirits, but if it’s offered—

He isn’t’ drunk either.

Or hungry.

Or thirsty.

Just tired. And numb.

As if he could close his eyes and slip away—

And that’s when the sorceress finds him, collapsing on to the cobbles.

* * *

Voices.

Familiar voices that sound muffled by cotton. Voices that stalk through the darkness and echo amongst themselves.

Then he hears his name.

_What do you think?..._

_...unlike any magic I have ever seen...providing that this is magic that has left him like this..._

_The healer can’t find anything wrong...not like Jaskier to let himself get like this...might be a curse..._

He can’t remember if he’s crossed paths with a warlock or sorcerer recently. But then again, they all look so painfully human, maybe he did and he’ll never know. But he tries to reach out and wade through the fog that has settled over him, and there’s nothing. He’s lying down, he knows that much. A plush mattress with linen sheets and maybe some furs at the foot of the bed. And there’s a hearth. His ears prick at the crackling of wood scorched by fire. And it’s warm, wherever he is.

But sleep pulls at him again, tugging him further into darkness. And he’s loathed to stop it. Sleep sounds like a grand idea. He could sleep forever, in some attempt to shake the tiredness out of his bones. But it’s seeping ever further in, thickening his tongue in his mouth and stinging his eyes. He just wants to sleep.

Warmth blooms on his forehead.

A voice returns.

_You can sleep now, bard. We’ll watch over you._

* * *

Time passes and all of it is spent wading between wakefulness – and he’s cautious of even calling it that – and sleeping. His eyes never open. They can’t. His eyelids are far too heavy and even thinking about it wanes on him. But he can hear; someone is always within the room, quietly talking to themselves in a low hum, broken apart by the sharp crackle from a nearby hearth. Glass pots and vials get knocked about somewhere in the room, or wherever he is.

All he wants is to move. A flutter of his eyelids or a twitch of his lip. Even tapping his finger on the mattress sinking underneath him. Anything to convince him that he’s still alive.

When the day comes, and his eyes crack open, the first thing he sees is a figure looming over him. His breath tries to catch in his throat, but a soft frown etches his brow at his vision focusing on the familiar face of Yennefer. The sorceress stares right back down at him; her long hair pulled back from her face, now somewhat gaunt with shadows. Her lips move, but nothing comes out. Nothing that Jaskier can hear, anyway. Blood rushes through his ears, drowning out everything. His face writhes into a grimace—

Warmth returns to his skin. Yennefer settles a palm against his cheek. Violet eyes scrutinise his face, darting between his eyes and down to his nose, his lips, his neck. Anywhere and everywhere. His lips bumble as he tries to move words out from his throat.

Something comes out. Whether or not it made any sense is anyone’s guess. Yennefer’s frown only deepens.

Another figure slips into his vision. Standing at the other side of the bed is another woman, older with alabaster skin and high cheekbones. Her lips are pulled into a thin line as she yanks the cork off of a vial. She glances over to Yennefer, mumbling something or other that Jaskier can’t make out.

And then a glass edge of a vial is brought to his lip. His body lays lax against the bed. There’s nothing that he can do except let whoever the other woman tilt his head back, letting a stream of liquid pool into his mouth and wash down his throat.

He doesn’t even have the energy to swallow or gag.

The woman and her vial disappear out of his vision for a moment. Yennefer remains. The sorceress folds her arms over her chest, and it dawns on him then that she’s just watching. Waiting.

The pull back to sleep is stronger now. His eyelids droop as he’s dragged under.

The sorceress lifts her chin. _Sleep_.

* * *

She doesn’t actually breathe properly until she steps out of the room. There, alone in a long stretch of hallway, where every other door around her is sealed shut and locked, Yennefer sucks in a tight breath. In the empty halls of the house, she wants to scream. To rattle every stone and tapestry hanging from the walls and _scream_. There’s nothing she hates more than a spell she can’t crack.

Her heeled boots click as she stalks down the hall. Her mind is a maelstrom of thought. She tries to regale every single lesson she was taught in Aretuza, and everything she has seen and read and heard throughout the Continent since first stepping out on to it.

But there’s nothing. And it’s _fucking annoying_.

Tissaia and her brightest student stand stumped by some unknown magic. She has half a mind to call the healer back. Or portal in a new one. Surely something physical is wrong with the bard. But he _looks fine_. He looks fine, but he dropped in the middle of a busy merchant town. She wasn’t near enough to catch him, but she did see him fall. At first, she thought maybe he had tripped, or fainted. As did those walking around him. But when the bard didn’t get up, when he did reach out to brace himself against the fall, when he didn’t twitch a muscle at being nudged by a passerby—

Yennefer steps into the main hall just as Tissaia huffs out a sigh. The elder flicks through her books. Worn leather tomes that gather dust on their shelves. Tissaia has houses dotted throughout the Continent. It was just lucky for the bard that he dropped in the right city at the right time.

Yennefer groans, burying her head into her hands. The fool probably got himself cursed. Gods only know what he’s capable of; a loose tongue and looser morals. She had heard the rumours of a bard famous for his songs, but also fucking his way through the Continent. It was only a matter of time before it all caught up to him.

 _Typical_. She tries not to let her eyes roll.

* * *

She’s just about to give up. Worn leather-bound tomes sit stacked on her dining room table, sheets of parchment scattered everywhere. Nothing helps. Nothing in any book or scroll tells her what this could be. And Tissaia has spent the past two hours hunting down a new healer. The only disadvantage of being so far away from a major city is the lack of help around; the healer that did visit won’t be back, scared off by two glowering sorceresses when he shrugged and said that he didn’t know what was wrong with the bard. And a town of this size, while big, won’t have a second opinion to hand.

She digs the heels of her palms into her eyes until stars speckle the darkness. Night is beginning to roll in and seeing it through until morning won’t help anyone. She looks to the stairs winding up through the house. A manor within one of the wealthier districts in the town. Even with the sky turning dark outside, Yennefer can still hear people coming and going in the streets. Most of them vendors on their way home for the nights. Others crowing out for their friends to join them in neighbouring taverns.

But bed pulls at her. She ascends the stairs, keeping a steady hand on the railing. When she reaches the landing, she spares a short glance to the bard’s room. The door has been left open, slightly ajar, just enough for her to peer inside.

He’s still asleep. Motionless except for the soft rise and fall of his chest. An assurance that he’s breathing and still alive.

Yennefer hums, turning to head to her own room further down the hall.

She’s stopped in her tracks by a sound crackling through the air. Sizzling. Her hackles lift as she looks over her shoulder. She blinks. A portal singes the wall, sparking and scalding the stone as it draws itself into the rough shape of a door. She stands, eyeing it cautiously.

It flickers to life. As soon as the door forms, swirling colours and sparks ignite an image on the other side. A room, stone-built and dotted with worn mahogany furniture. But that’s not what grabs her attention. Yennefer squares her shoulders at the sight of Witchers; a pack of them, standing just beyond the reach of the portal, all staring straight through it.

She lifts her chin. “Wolves,” she says lightly, not necessarily as a greeting.

The pack beyond regard her for a moment. One of them speaks, a young wolf with ashen hair and a scarred face. “Yennefer of Vengerberg?” The name is foreign on his tongue, but he manages just fine.

Yennefer’s expression stays impassive. “Who is it to the Kaer Morhen pack?”

Golden eyes watch her, some more intently than others. The ashen haired wolf speaks again. “Geralt,” he says simply, golden eyes changing – softening. “He’s ill.”

An elder Witcher thins his lips. His words are tight, but something rattles the ends of them; something that sounds an awful lot like emotion. “We were told that you would know what to do.”

* * *

Illness cannot find a home in Witchers. Mutated blood wrings it out before it can get any grasp on anything to cause some damage. The only thing that can kill a Witcher is a monster or a human with a good aim; and even then, Witchers are stubborn things that just refuse to bleed out completely.

Witchers don’t get ill.

But here one is, curled into himself on the bed and shuddering with every breath.

Yennefer steels herself. She glances over to the other wolves, each of them stalking the edge of the room, never too far away from their brother. She’s only met them all in passing, but watching how golden eyes carefully regard Geralt, wincing any time a particularly bad shake rattles through him, she understands the bond they all share.

The eldest wolf watches her intently. She can feel his gaze scalding her skin as she approaches. Her fingers twitch by her side as Geralt sharply inhales, almost coiling completely around himself. His white hair is drenched with sweat, some of it stuck to his face and forehead. Sitting near the bed, Yennefer spots a washbasin with some damp cloths beside it. The poor pups tried wringing out a fever that refused to budge. They’ve never contended with illness before, gods rest them, they tried their best.

She dusts her fingers across his forehead. The second she brushes skin, she bites on the urge to lurch her hand back.

He’s scalding. Damp from sweat that sours the air and _roasting_. Every blanket and sheet and fur on the bed has been kicked to the foot, some of them even tumbling down and pooling on the floor. And even with the biting almost-winter winds howling outside the keep, the Witcher’s skin burns.

Yennefer’s frown deepens. “How long has he been like this?” _He shouldn’t be alive_.

The elder speaks for the pack. “Eskel came to me last night,” he says stiffly, his eyes finally leaving her to look down at his eldest pup. His gaze softens. “Apparently he’s been feeling out of sorts for the past few weeks.”

Another voice joins from the other side of the room. “He told me,” the ashen haired Witcher says, his face torn up with long-healed scars. _Eskel_ , Yennefer remembers. The wolf clenches his jaw. “He didn’t think anything of it. He came home and thought that would be that.”

And here he is.

There’s enough space at the edge of the bed for her to perch herself on it. She sets her hands on his shoulders, tempering a shake. He still trembles underneath her though, as if he were caught out in the mountain’s harsh snowstorms. And yet he feels like the surface of the sun.

She clicks her tongue. “I can give him something for the pain,” she says slowly, running violet eyes over him. “And something for the fever.”

A short, bit-off snarl crackles from the other side of the room. “Do you know what’s wrong with him, witch?” A fire-haired Witcher growls. It quietens only when the elder snaps his head over to him, challenging with his own snarl.

Yennefer lifts her chin. Wolves snarl and snap but have no bite. “I’ll have to examine him,” she says steadily, holding the Witcher’s golden glare. “If that’s alright with you, of course.”

The elder huffs. “Sorceress, you can have time and resources.” He turns his attention to the youngest of his litter. “Leave the sorceress to her work.”

The youngest wolf grunts something under his breath, but leaves with one last look at his brother. When he steps out, the other young wolf approaches. Kinder eyes meet hers, but still laced with concern. “We know Witchers aren’t supposed to turn ill,” Eskel mumbles, “that’s why we called on you. Vesemir thinks it might be magic.”

She turns back to the bed. Geralt’s face contorts as another tremor rattles through him. A low whine slips out of him. Eskel makes his own noise, concerned and fearful. Yennefer reaches out. She brushes some hair away from Geralt’s brow. It withers into a frown, but she smoothes the back of her fingers against his scorched skin. He’s drenched in sweat and trembling, and even with the words from the mountain beginning to ring in her ear, she can’t help but want to wish it all away for him—

Yennefer’s hand pauses. She glances over to Eskel, still lingering at the foot of the bed, watching his brother intently. “Magic?”

The wolf nods stiffly. “He’s never seen anything like this before,” he says quietly, as if having his voice too loud might disturb the other shaking pup. “He couldn’t find anything physically wrong with him. We don’t have healers up here but Vesemir is all we have.”

Yennefer bites the inside of her cheek. The two of them – a wolf and a bard – struck down with the same thing. It seems to be, anyway. Though, in Tissaia’s manor, Jaskier isn’t burning and drenched in sweat and trembling with some sort of chill.

Then again—

“I want him moved,” she says firmly, the order almost lashing through the air.

Eskel blinks. “Moved?” he asks slowly. He glances back at his brother. “As in, _moved_? Moved where?”

“Another sorceress and I are tending to another with this kind of affliction,” she says, already striding to the other side of the room to start on a portal. The rooms in the keep are larger than any in Tissaia’s townhouse.

Eskel’s head lifts that bit higher. “Someone else has this?” he asks. “Is...Is there a cure?”

“I don’t know.” “But I want to keep them together to see what I can do.”

The wolf regards her for a moment before he nods. Within a few minutes, and a loud shout from him down the hallway, the pack floods back into the room. The red-haired one eyes her cautiously as she finishes up with the portal. The familiar scenery of the townhouse flickers into focus just beyond the sparking and sizzling outline. She glances over her shoulder.

A torn-up sound wrenches out of Geralt’s throat at being moved. A sound that snaps through the air. Yennefer turns back to the portal.

* * *

_...bed here...Lay him down..._

Voices swirl again. Everything’s so heavy. He tries to twitch his fingers against the sheets, but they don’t feel attached to him anymore.

He claws his way towards wakefulness. The voices echoing in the room become clearer and clearer with each step he staggers up.

**_...the bard who sang...is he here?_ **

_I’ll have to run some tests...I don’t know...magic this is..._

He’s tired. His bones ache and his muscles ease back into the mattress below him.

Within seconds, sleep washes back over him.

* * *

For the first time in a long time, his eyelids manage to crack open.

Something’s different. He can feel it in the air. Every step he takes towards waking up is firmer than the last. He doesn’t falter as soon as he blinks his eyes open.

Bright sunlight streams in through the small slits in the drawn curtains. Jaskier watches it begin to creep over to the foot of the bed. Sounds drift in through an open window. Chatter from the people in the streets outside, milling around their daily lives. Elsewhere within the house, he hears floorboards creaking and voices mingling.

Familiar female voices mixing with gruffer male ones. Ones he has heard before, but just can’t place.

He tilts his head back. The movement is almost foreign to him. Gods only know how long it has been since he’s been able to move of his own will. As soon as he inches his head back, his neck cracks and his shoulders tighten. Pain thrum through him, but nothing like before. The dull ache is gone, beginning to wane finally as he finally settles into some form of consciousness.

The bed is a simple single one, thin but lined with enough space for him to stretch out his legs. He winces at how his muscles protest and his joints threaten to tighten and crack. The feeling of a long sleep is one he’s had before, but this is just worst. It takes effort to even free his shoulders of the mattress beneath him, just barely lifting them up to see if they can still move.

And then his ears twitch at the sound of movement.

As gently as he can, Jaskier lolls his head to the side. Looking out on to the other side of the room, his eyes blearily land on a figure resting in another single bed close by. Covered up with blankets and furs lining the foot of the bed, slumbering peacefully; Jaskier blinks at the sight of sheer white hair sticking out from the cocoon of blankets and splayed out on to the pillow.

His nose wrinkles with the familiar smell of the Witcher drifting through the room.

_No._

_No fucking way—_

The door creaks open. Jaskier just about manages to lift his head to spot Yennefer slipping into the room, as quietly as she can. Two glass vials are caught in one hand, while the other gentles the door closed behind her.

Jaskier clears his throat. Words try to claw up and spill out of his lips, but he can’t trust his voice. Not yet, anyway. Gods only know how long he’s been asleep.

The sorceress regards him for a moment, running her violet eyes over him before humming. “Good to see that you’re awake,” she says quietly, padding over to the other bed in the room. The figure – _Geralt_ – doesn’t move. He sleeps, and his chest lifts and falls with steady breaths, but he doesn’t budge. Yennefer sets one of the vials by his bed, a simple wooden nightstand already laden with a ceramic bowl of water and some cloth rags. Jaskier frowns.

His heart stutters in his chest. All at once, echoes from the mountains brush his ear.

 _If life could give me one blessing_ —

He winces, turning away to stare back up at the ceiling. It’s mottled and there’s a small crack in the plaster, but it’s enough to keep his attention.

He hears the sorceress uncork the vial and try and tempt some of the liquid into the Witcher’s mouth.

She did the same for him.

His frown only deepens.

The sorceress doesn’t stay for long. She sets her now empty vials aside, resting the back of her hand against the Witcher’s forehead for a moment before humming to herself.

She pads over to Jaskier’s side, eyeing him curiously. “You’re awake,” she says, almost to confirm it.

Jaskier nods. Or at least tries to. The movement pulls at his neck. “Seems so,” he rasps, coughing to clear his throat. Yennefer reaches over to his own bedside table and grabs him a cup of water. She helps him take a small sip of it. And it might be the first time he’s been able to drink anything in weeks. It washes over his tongue and coats his throat on its way down. Like he’s spent a particularly bad summer in Nilfgaardian sands without a drop of water to be seen.

He settles back against the bed. “Am I better?” he asks after a time. She watches him. His throat bobs. “Can I leave?”

Something flickers in her eyes. Nothing entirely recognisable, but enough of something to have him braced for the worst. Whispers still nip at the shell of his ear, incessant little things that just won’t go away. He wouldn’t mind being flung back into that silent sleep. At least the voices left him alone then—

“No.” Yennefer’s voice holds firm. “You’re still weak. And it seems like Geralt is suffering from something too. Until I know what it is, you’re staying here.”

His heart hammers within his chest, threatening to batter against his ribcage and break out, flinging itself on to the bed or even the floor. So he swallows a lump trying to catch in his throat. He doesn’t want to stay. Memories flash in front of him like afterimages, blurry and shaky, but he doesn’t want to even look at them.

“Please Yenn,” he breathes, levelling her with a firm look. “I can’t stay here.”

Yennefer’s lips thin into a narrow, pale line. It only dawns on him now how bare-faced the sorceress is – different from how he usually sees her. She clicks her tongue. “No.”

With that, she turns on her heel and leaves. The door clicks behind her, and although she tries her best to muffle it against her hand, the sound still claps through the air. It stings. Jaskier sets his head back against the pillows.

Geralt is here. He’s an arm’s reach away. And he cannot remember how long it’s been since he saw him last.

His heart quickens, his stomach churns, and he’s going to get sick. But he can’t. It’s a trembling sort of fear that’s rattling through him and he _hates it_.

He closes his eyes, trying to take a breath. It shakes and stutters but he inhales, holds, and exhales.

When his eyes open, settling on the mottled plaster roof and his ears twitching at every soft inhale the Witcher beside him takes, his heart threatens to lurch into his throat.

He can’t stay here.

He won’t.


	2. Chapter 2

It crests like waves. The first few tentative steps out on to the town’s cobblestone streets are shaky. But he steels himself, clutching the straps of his bag and his lute’s case, and pushes forward. It’s midday, or he thinks so at least, blearily blinking up at the sun perched high in the sky. Even with heavy, rain-laden clouds threatening to tumble down from nearby hills, the sun still manages to peer through.

The town is a mess of noise – forges billowing and screeching metal, markets and their vendors calling out to each passerby that drifts into the main square. People brush up against him, a few even checking his shoulder and making him stagger. It’s not a particularly busy or big town, but it’s an assault on his senses. Jaskier pinches the bridge of his nose. _It’s alright_ , he wills himself to keep taking steps towards the town’s gates. _Just keep going_.

Every step gets heavier than the last. His feet start to shuffle and drag as soon as the gates come into view. And even then, Jaskier winces. His vision blurs and no matter how much he tries to rub at his eyes, it only gets worse.

 ** _Go back_**. A voice brushes the shell of his ear. Something not quite human, but lulling and lithe and like a siren’s song. **_We do not want to harm you_** _._

He bites the inside of his cheek, shaking his head. No one is talking to him. Everyone swirling around him keeps to themselves. They don’t even notice the bard having a would-be-breakdown in the middle of the street.

What’s wrong with him? He sets the back of his hand to his forehead. Early winter winds do nothing to cool his skin. If anything, he almost scalds himself when his hand brushes against his skin.

“Bard.”

The word shatters through him. He looks over his shoulder. The world suddenly starts to shift and tilt. He staggers a step before firm hands catch his arms. “You’re alright,” a deep voice soothes. Everything bleeds into itself as Jaskier’s eyes roll to the back of his head, slumping against a leather-armoured chest.

* * *

“You should really put a tracker on him.”

Yennefer glances to the other side of the room. Once a hall for greeting guests, now a laboratory for Tissaia. Heavy wooden desks are laden with pots and pans, some of them churning liquids within them of their own accord. The acrid scents of flowers and spice and chemicals sting the roof of Yennefer’s mouth. It’s a scent she’s gotten used to over the years.

Tissaia lifts her gaze from her book. A pointed finger drifts along the words as she flicks through pages and pages, huffing quietly under her breath. They’ve poured over every book in this house at least twice. Nothing tells them anything.

Yennefer runs her fingers through her hair, trying to tame it back into a manageable knot. “He won’t get very far if he keeps collapsing every time he gets a mile away from the house,” she says stiffly, wincing slightly at how tight her shoulders and neck are. Sleep hasn’t been kind to her, or Tissaia. Her mind has been nothing but a maelstrom ever since the bard dropped in front of her. And now she has a Witcher too, still slumbering but seemingly getting better. Until the damn bard left, that is—

A frown etches into her brow.

Tissaia glances up. A silence stretches out between them. She arches a thin eyebrow.

Yennefer sits up in her chair, ignoring the small thrum of tension that wrings through her shoulders. “The bard seemed to get better once Geralt was brought here,” she says slowly, “and the same happened to Geralt. And then the bard left, and he fell ill again.”

The words linger in the air. She glances to the staircase. It’s been quiet since the elder Witcher brought the bard back. Keeping them together was just for Yennefer’s benefit. She didn’t want to be travelling between two separate rooms, especially when they both seemed to be struck down with the same thing. Geralt brushed consciousness this morning, only to be dragged back down once they learned that the bard had left.

It’s nothing physical at all. Yennefer’s frown only deepens. “This is magic,” she says firmly, looking back at her mentor. “It’s nothing we’ve ever seen before so how old could this be? And why is it they both seem to fare better when near each other?”

“I’ll consult some elders that I know,” Tissaia nods, shutting her book and pushing it to the side. “What will you do?”

Yennefer squares her shoulders. “I want to try an experiment.”

* * *

“You want us to do what?”

“Move him.” Yennefer settles the wolves with a firm stare. Her hands poised at her hips and her posture straight, she holds each of their golden gazes. She gestures to the beds. “Move one of them, I don’t care who. Put them in the room at the end of the hall.”

The fair-haired Witcher, Eskel, glances to the bed. He regards both of them. Both bodies wrapped up in blankets and furs slumber peacefully as golden and violet eyes wash over them. Eskel lifts his chin. “The bard,” he says, glancing then to his pack. “He’ll be easier to move.”

A red-haired Witcher, Lambert, grunts. “If Geralt heard that you called him fat,” he says thinly, almost verging on a joke. But his face doesn’t show it at all. A glower has been etched into his face since the portal to the house first blinked open. An expression that has only been souring with every passing hour, and every time Yennefer has to concede and say that she still doesn’t know what’s wrong with their brother.

The younger Witchers haul the bard up and out of the bed, slinging his arms over their shoulders. His head lolls forward, but with such a short journey in front of them, Yennefer doesn’t think that it would do any damage.

The elder wolf stalks over to her. “What kind of test are you thinking of, sorceress?” His younger wolves drag Jaskier away. Though, the bard’s feet hardly brush the ground.

Once they’re out of sight, and a still quiet blankets over the room, Yennefer turns to the elder. “They both seemed to get better when they were near each other,” she says quietly, eyes falling on to the still figure of Geralt peacefully slumbering in the bed. “And Jaskier then got worse once he left. I want to see does distance from each other have anything to do with it.”

Something in the wolf’s eyes changes. His whole body tightens as a slow, long sigh blows out of him. She didn’t think it possible, but the old dog looks even more tired than usual. All of his years of life suddenly catch up to him as his eyes soften. “I think I know what this is, sorceress.”

* * *

The door to the room barely clicks shut before Jaskier’s face twists up in pain. One of the wolves, Eskel, Yennefer thinks, makes a sound in the back of his throat. A tight sort of sound wrenches out of Jaskier’s throat, half-buried into the plush pillow below his head.

Vesemir’s voice swirls in her head.

Soulbonds. A thread of life spun for every living person and Destiny knitting and entwining it with others that it can get its hands on. She tries not to bite her tongue. Destiny has already soured too many things thus far, and here it is to make matters even more complicated.

 _Nothing complicated about a soulbond, sorceress_ , the old wolf sighed. Though, his tone changed looking down at his eldest pup. _It can be, especially with those who disregard it, or think that it won’t get them in the end._

Destiny has her claws in both of them. Some unknown wisping force curling around each and every one of them, but with a certain souring snarl directed at both the bard and the Witcher. It’s shit. And when they wake up, Yennefer will _not_ be the one to tell them about it. Because even though it’s been months, and the mountain and that stupid dragon hunt are long behind them all, she can hear growled words echoing in her ears. Words that weren’t meant for her, but words she still heard all the same as she marched away. Words that made her stumble and pause. She should have waited for the bard. She should have walked with him down the mountain. But her blood was sour and her mind churned about the things their Witcher had said to her—

But she’s here now.

“Move him back,” Yennefer says quietly, folding her arms in front of her chest.

Lambert’s frown deepens. “We just brought him here. You said-”

“-I know what I said, dog,” she snaps. The words lash through the air, whipping at Lambert’s skin. The red wolf’s expression falters. He blinks. Yennefer tightens her jaw. “Move him back.”

They don’t challenge her on it again. Wordlessly, both wolves scoop the bard up again and gentle him back down the hall. Tissaia stands sentinel at the mouth of the stairs, watching with a curious eye. None of her contacts came back with anything useful. But the elder Witcher takes her aside and explains what he’s said to Yennefer.

She follows the younger wolves inside the room. All at once, the tremors rattling through the bard’s shoulders dim. By the time Eskel and Lambert lay him back down in his own bed, gently arranging the sheets over and around him, his face smoothens out into a blank expression. He sleeps. Yennefer’s eyes dart to the other bed. Geralt slumbers peacefully – most of that thanks to valerian root and poppy’s milk. His fever broke as soon as the morning sun peered over the nearby hills. Whether or not it will stay away, now that the bard is here, who knows?

She glances over her shoulder at the sound of Tissaia and Vesemir stepping into the room. The elder wolf’s face is a maelstrom of thoughts and emotion. Ancient magic that’s stickier than Cintran honey. It can’t be broken – if what Geralt’s brush with a Child Surprise is anything to go by. So what does it leave them with? Neither of them can be parted for too long? If that’s the case, she doesn’t want to be anywhere near the bard when he tries to wrangle an apology out of the Witcher. Gods give him luck.

The younger wolves drift around the edge of the room. “So it’s magic?” Eskel asks, his brow furrowed in thought. She has vague memories of Geralt telling her that Eskel was the more adept at magic. A good student with Signs, and an avid reader. But he looks as confused and baffled as the rest of them.

Vesemir nods, scratching at his beard. “We’ll wait until they’re both awake,” he says with a rumble. “I want to know what they did to invoke something like this.”

Yennefer’s stomach suddenly twists. “We were all on a dragon hunt,” she says. The silence that falls over the room is stifling. Even the crackling from the hearth doesn’t do anything to break the quiet. Her tongue sits heavily in her mouth, fumbling over words as she tries to recount that day weeks ago. Memories of it sit in front of her like afterimages, blurred and not quite right, but if she reached out, they could fade away. “By the end of it, we were all so tired. And some things were discovered. It was a fucking mess. But Geralt...said some things to the bard. I wasn’t there for it, but I heard him shouting down the mountain.”

Vesemir regards her with cool eyes. Light streaming in through the window catches the golden hue of them. Dashed in between, Yennefer barely makes out lines of silver and bronze too. She thins her lips. “Destiny has already ensnared Geralt. He has a Child Surprise, one he hasn’t collected yet. But this... I don’t know if Destiny or whatever else is just having some sick fun with him, but when him and the bard are parted, they get ill.”

What she has said washes over each of them. Vesemir catches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. For a moment, a maelstrom of emotion flashes across his face. If he were in his own keep, maybe he could overturn something. A table, maybe. Or just yank his eldest pup out of his bed and shake him senseless. And Yennefer can’t hear thoughts as well as she used to, but she can only imagine what the elder is growling in his own mind, wanting to snarl and scream.

“A fucking Child Surprise,” Lambert scoffs from the other side of the room. He pointedly keeps himself away from the elder. “Reckless idiot.”

Something flashes across Eskel’s face. He glances down to the worn toes of his boots, shuffling his feet against the floorboards. His face colours into something bright. Yennefer lifts her chin. She won’t challenge him. He’s been the kindest to her since she’s invited a wolf pack into her home. But she stores it away in her mind. She’ll call on it later, when things have settled.

And maybe they won’t. She looks back to the two men sleeping. She doesn’t want to be the one to tell them. She won’t. At a push, she could maybe get the elder Witcher to do it. It’s _his_ pup, after all. His responsibility. And she holds no love for the bard, but maybe he’ll be easier to talk to. Divide and conquer – if their bodies can stand being a few feet away from each other while Yennefer tries to lure one of them outside.

The bard will be the one to lash out. He’ll want it broken – call it a curse, rather than a _bond_. And she can only imagine how he’ll react to Vesemir beginning to explain that it can’t be broken. Destiny, or Fate, or whoever watches over them with far too much time on their hands knots these ties together firmly. They can’t be unravelled. Unless one of them were to die.

And Jaskier might just take that option.

She’ll make sure to lock away anything sharp and bolt the upper-level windows.

* * *

Voices greet him first. Deep lulling tones like the ocean. Voices that he could slip into and drift downwards. They almost lull him back to sleep. But the climb up towards consciousness is steep and although he stumbles, he manages to crack his eyes open.

A soft frown creases his forehead at the gentle orange hue in the room. A nearby heart crackles and sparks, pulsing warmth out into the room. Tapestries draped over the walls keep out most of the chill. A few candles sit cradled in candelabras are dotted throughout the room. It’s calm and peaceful and Jaskier’s mind tries to catch up on what’s brought him to this moment.

He blinks himself awake. Every crawl towards consciousness is a struggle, but when he’s awake enough to roll his shoulders and his head, he revels in the ability to _move_. His mouth is dry and tacky. Rolling his head to the side, he looks for a jug of water. Candles and empty vials, but nothing that he can drink—

“Here, bard.”

He almost jumps at the low voice thrumming through the air. Stalking into view is a Witcher. A wolf medallion hangs from his neck, just poking through the opened collar of his linen shirt. He’s lithe and tall, with cropped ashen hair and a thick mottle of scars knotting half of his face. But familiar golden eyes meet his.

A golden hue that has his breath catching his throat.

The Witcher holds up a hand. “It’s alright,” he mumbles, mindful of the peace in the room. He lifts his other hand – a small cup clasped in his palm. “You need to drink.”

He brings the cup to Jaskier’s lips. He can’t do anything but let the fresh, cool water slip past his lips and coat the inside of his mouth. It’s good. He would prefer wine or ale or mead, but water will do. He’ll get his hands on other drinks as soon as he’s out of here—

Here. Where is here?

He looks past the Witcher’s shoulders. Familiar wooden walls draped in tapestries and lit by candles. The sorceress’ house.

_He’s still in this godsdamn town._

For the love of every single god and goddess he can remember the name of—

His head lolls to the side out of frustration, out of the sight of Witchers and mahogany wooden walls and elaborate candelabras—

His gaze falls on to another bed with a body stretched out on it. A figure half-covered in ruffled sheets faces him.

Golden eyes catch his. 

An immovable expression. One that he spent years looking at. One he got exceptionally good at reading. The White Wolf was an open book if one knew his tells – a quirk of his lip or a twitch of an eyebrow. Even his stares and glares could be broken down.

But Jaskier is out of practice. There’s a face turned to him that he hasn’t seen in—what—weeks, months? Who knows?

His heart trembles in his chest, stuttering and trying to batter against his ribcage. It almost lurches up his throat, if the lump trying to lodge itself there is anything to go by. Jaskier swallows, turning his head so he can stare back up at the ceiling. _Fuck this_ , he curses, _fuck all of it, I can’t be here—_

“Don’t think of running again, bard,” the ashen-haired Witcher speaks again. Something tinges his voice. Something Jaskier can’t quite put his finger on. The Witcher sets the cup aside. “It won’t do you any good.”

The Witcher moves, stalking over to the other side of the room towards Geralt. And doesn’t the name just sour on his tongue. Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut. This is a dream. Or a nightmare. This can’t be happening. The Witcher he spent years following ripped his heart out and threw it off of that mountain. Gods only know where it landed, because Jaskier certainly doesn’t have it anymore—

His throat bobs and his eyes sting. He _refuses_ to cry. He’s cried enough. When the numbness waned and the nights were unbearably quiet, he cried. Stifling them into pillows or his hand or just about anything to stop choked off noises coming out, he cried until there was nothing left in him anymore. And it _hurt_. His eyes stung and throbbed and his throat was raw as if he spent the day screaming. It was awful.

And he will not do that now.

The door clicks open. A sorceress steps inside followed by an elder wolf. Jaskier lifts his head, just about summoning the energy to do it. Some small flash of surprise blinks on Yennefer’s face, but it disappears as quickly as it appeared.

The elder Witcher regards him. Golden, scrutinising eyes that seem to bear into his soul as he stares at Jaskier. His tongue sits heavily in his throat. He wants to speak; to try and get out of this house that just seems to be producing more Witchers by the second. He wants to _leave_ —

**You will stay, bard.**

A choked-off groan slips out of him. His arm wraps around his stomach as he bends in half. Through the heat of pain, he’s distantly aware of two sets of hands grabbing at his arms and shoulders. He winces. “Get off,” he whines, burying another grunt of pain into his pillow.

The hands couldn’t’ be more different. Thin fingers and warm palms, and thick and sword-calloused ones, both of them trying to ease Jaskier on to his back.

_Please stop—_

And it’s gone.

Yennefer and Eskel gentle him back against the bed. A small plush pillow holds up his head. Gods alive, his brain might be swelling. A headache coils around his forehead and towards his ear. It’s too much. Whatever’s got a hold on him, it’s awful and he wants no part of it—

Yennefer sets a hand against his forehead. Her lips mumble together. Blood rushes through his ears, he can’t hear her at all. All at once, his blood starts to cool. The tightness in his stomach starts to uncurl with every drawn-in breath. 

They both look at each other for a moment. Violet eyes bear into his while his breathing levels and settles, and he doesn’t have the overwhelming urge to run for the nearest window.

The sorceress steps away, glancing over her shoulder to the pack of wolves keeping themselves to the other side of the room. They gather around the foot of their brother's bed, cautiously looking him over. Every so often, their golden gazes glance over to him. And he’s floored by it.

* * *

It’s not that he can’t hear the elder Witcher. He can hear him perfectly fine. And he hangs off of every word that slips out of the wolf’s lips. It’s just that when his blood begins to gush through his ears and his stomach lurches, he wants to turn his head away and bury his face into his pillow. Maybe then it would all just go away. But some echoing lulling voice drifting around his head is telling him to listen, that he needs to be _here_.

With Geralt.

He can’t look to the other side of the room. Heat blooms against his cheek. He can feel the Witcher’s eyes on him. And it only has his chest tightening.

The elder wolf, Vesemir, Jaskier learns, speaks for the pack. “This is an ancient magic,” he says stiffly, glancing over to Geralt, “one that you’re apparently familiar with.”

Jaskier can’t see the other Witcher – he refuses to look over to the other bed – but he can feel how the air thickens and warms with the elder’s glare. His lip lifts in a small snarl. “There’s no undoing it,” he says firmly. The words settle over them and smother. “You simply must talk to each other now, sort something out between you. Gods alive, it will make it all easier for everyone.”

When Geralt’s speaks, it’s nothing but a rumble. “How can I talk to a man who won’t even look at me?”

Vesemir turns on his heel. “Work it out,” the elder snarls. A pointed finger aims at Geralt – something that completely floors the other wolf. His gaze lowers. His head dips. Vesemir grunts, turning to stalk back through the door.

It barely clicks shut before the air suddenly thickens. He hates it. It’s awkward and Jaskier just wants to die and Geralt’s swords are perched by a nearby dresser, probably sharpened and ready to bite—

A harsh sigh blows out of the Witcher. One he’s heard before, over campfires out on the road when they’re settling down for the night. When the Witcher can let his shoulders drop and he can stop clenching his jaw against the world.

It’s the only sound that snaps through the silence stifling the room. Even the hissing hearth or faint hum of people chattering in the street outside doesn’t do anything to try and wave away the tension.

“I’m sorry.”

The words crackle through the room, settling over both of them. Jaskier can feel them, sitting on and compressing his chest. His throat bobs. The ceiling is still cracked, he notices. Mottled plaster bobbling away from the roof while a web of small cracks ripples through them. It’s something to keep his eyes on, something to stare at while his throat tremors.

“Jaskier.”

His face contorts in pain. He winces at the sound of the Witcher’s voice. The familiarity of the low rumble and a slight twinge of something laced through his name. _Don’t look at him_ , he tells himself. If he does, he’ll be lost. Gods only know what he’ll do—

“Jaskier, please.”

**Look at him.**

A whine slips out of his throat. He lets a breath slip out of him before his head turns. Whether it’s of his own accord or not, who knows anymore. He doesn’t. But his head lolls to the side and bleary eyes Golden eyes meet his. “I’m sorry. For all of it. The mountain, the things I said. I don’t know what kind of magic binds you to me, but I’m sorry for that too.”

Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. Words claw up his throat. Biting words that he wants to lash on the Witcher’s skin and hope that they scar. Months spent with his rambling mind. Voice swirl and echo and whip in a maelstrom. They follow him into the darkness when he shuts his eyes.

 _Shut up. Stop_.

“Jaskier.”

“What?” It lurches out of him before he can snap his jaw shut. The words crack through the air and lash the Witcher’s skin. And even though he can’t bring himself to look at the man, he can tell that it stung by how the air thickens.

 _Good_.

_You left me with wounds too._

Jaskier swallows. His throat bobs as a lump tries to stick in his throat.

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” comes a timid, murmur of a voice. There’s a sharp inhale. “You didn’t deserve it, any o fit. I was frustrated and things were going to shit and for some stupid reason, I blamed the only good person in my life who put up with all of my shit.”

Jaskier’s eyes sting. He blinks, holding back tears threatening to spill. All of those purged feelings return; his stomach lurches as he desperately tries not to cry—

“I thought I was going to die.” Geralt lets out a dry laugh. “I would have left this world without telling the only person who stuck with me how sorry I am. And that hurt more than any fever or pain.”

What possesses him to turn, who knows? The incessant voices whispering against his ear? Destiny? Maybe they’re all the same.

But he glances over to the other bed.

His breath catches in his throat. Shadows cling to the Witcher’s face, hollowing and sinking in his cheeks and eyes. And his eyes – the gold has dulled and sits against red-streaked whites. The Witcher thins his lips. “I’m so sorry, Jaskier.”

And his Witcher is always full of shit. Grumbled complaints and rolled eyes. But this? He’s never seen _this_.

Jaskier swallows. Words sit perched on the tip of his tongue, waiting to slip out from his lips. They’ll echo in the quiet of the room – and he almost wishes that someone else, a wolf or sorceress, would burst in to shatter the silence.

His lips barely move when he speaks; the first words that have crawled up his throat in days.

“It hurt,” he rasps, “the things you said. And I lost sleep, worrying that you would find me somewhere. And then days passed by and I started to worry that you wouldn’t find me.” Jaskier’s throat bobs. “I don’t know what feelings are my own and what are because of this...bond.”

Something flashes in the Witcher’s eyes. After-whispers of cutting words; snarls of a wish and false feelings and how nothing is real.

He could leave it at that. Let the cuts fester and scab, or lash out more. Litter the Witcher with scars of his own making, ones that will cut to the bone. He spent so many nights with a soured tongue, his mouth turned acrid.

But he’s tired now.

His muscles groan and his bones ache as the bed and all of its blankets engulf and smother him. Something sweet thrills against his ear.

 _Let go_.

He sinks further into the bed. The room spins; swirling and teetering around him and even lying down, he feels like he could slip back into darkness.

A noise slips out of the Witcher. He reaches out, worming an arm out from his cocoon of blankets. It's heavy and hangs limply in the air but Geralt winces as he stretches to reach across the small sliver of space between the two beds. His reach only stretches halfway. Geralt whines.

The sound burrows into Jaskier’s ear. His fingers twitch.

Before his mind can catch up with his body, his arm slips out from underneath his blankets.

At the first brush of skin, warmth sears through him. A shiver rattles up along his spine as his fingertips bump Geralt’s. Familiar heat and a scent that coats the roof of his mouth and settles over his tongue.

And for the first time in a long time, his mind is quiet.

* * *

“You left them up there?” Lambert arches an eyebrow. “With Geralt’s swords?”

The elder sorceress barks a laugh. “Have you seen both of them? They can’t even stay awake, let alone try and maul each other.”

Vesemir keeps his eyes on the top of the staircase. The wolves and sorceresses chatter amongst each other, but he keeps his ears locked on upstairs. Muffled murmurs and words that he can’t quite make out.

A quiet then lulls over it.

Vesemir straightens. His pups let their words die on their tongues as they look to the elder.

Yennefer is the first out of her seat. She smoothes her hand down along the skirts of her dress before striding towards the staircase. A low rumble emits from the younger wolves. Vesemir settles them with a single stare. He lifts his chin at Yennefer. “You may see to them now, sorceress.”

Yennefer regards him for a moment before nodding. Her footfalls are light on each step, but no less quickened. Maybe they have surged with strength and mauled each other. The bard has harboured a soured tongue ever since he tumbled down that mountain. Yennefer can feel how it poisoned his blood and his heart. And Geralt, he was even more emotionally vacant than usual.

She can only imagine how their conversation went.

By the time she reaches their door, she pauses, setting her hand against it. Her ears strain as she tries to listen; for words, breaths, for anything.

The door clicks open. She rounds it easily enough, keeping herself straight and squared, ready to let magic pulse through her should the worst have happened.

She doesn’t expect to see them both sitting upright, perched on the sides of their beds, facing each other. Her steps falter as she comes to a halt just inside the door. A soft murmured conversation withers away between them. Golden and light blue eyes glance over to her. They’re brighter. Shadows have slipped away and as she scrutinises their faces for any sign of sickness, she can’t find any.

Jaskier loosens a small sigh. “We’re alright now,” he says. His voice is leaner, stronger. It doesn’t rasp or tremble as it used to in the hours before. She blinks at the fact he even has a voice at all. Even the room feels different. Whatever had been hovering over them, breathing whispers into ears and tugging them around the country, it’s gone. Well, Yennefer glances around, she’s not keen to say _gone_. But it has thinned. Maybe she’ll be able to help them shrug off the last few tendrils draped over them.

The bard glances back to the Witcher, a small smile curling along his lip. Geralt ducks his head, turning away entirely to look at the wall. Because, of course. He’s Geralt. She can imagine the soft hue of colour dusting the arches of his cheeks.

She clears her throat. “Yes, well,” she folds her arms over her chest, “if you’re both quite done with all of that nonsense, you can get out of my house.”

A light laugh wracks through their shoulders, but they stand. They don’t tremble. Neither of them stumbles as they shuffle to the ends of their beds and grab clothes stacked there by Tissaia. Yennefer leaves with a flourish, stalking back down the hall and marching downstairs. The first pair of wolf eyes to fall on her is Vesemir’s. “Your pup and his bard are fine,” she says stiffly. It rings through the room, drawing out relieved sighs. Even Tissaia breaks her usual stony expression to arch an eyebrow.

The younger wolves slip past Yennefer and scramble upstairs. She tries not to let her eyes roll back at the sound of crowing. Vesemir stands from his chair with a tired grunt. Witchers outlive most things, and Vesemir still seems to hang on to life with a tight, unyielding grip. Once he’s on his feet, he reaches a hand out to the sorceress. “Thank you, Yennefer,” he rumbles.

She regards his hand, glancing over to Tissaia. The woman lifts her chin. Yennefer takes his hand, shaking it firmly. A small smile tilts the corner of her lip. “I fear I might see you again sometime soon, Witcher,” she says, glancing to the stairs. “Your pup and his bard seem to get caught up in unusual things.”

Something glowers Vesemir’s face. He looks tired – but the tiredness of a parent. “Aye, that’s true,” he says, letting his hand fall to his side. He lifts his shoulder. “You’ll be a portal away, right?”

Even though it’s a question, the way those golden eyes watch her – she has no say whatsoever. Still, Yennefer bows her head. “I’ll be a portal away.”

* * *

Eskel and Lambert are the first through. They blur as soon as they’re gone, stepping into one of the keep’s rooms. Eskel glances behind, making sure that the portal still holds. Vesemir is next, idly walking through as if he were taking a stroll through the forests shrouding the keep.

Jaskier regards the portal. He’s never had to use one. His stomach flips at the sight of it. Magic pulses and crackles through the air, nipping his skin. His lips thin.

Something brushes his hand. He looks down just in time to see Geralt step beside him. The back of their hands brush, that blooming warmth coiling through their skin and muscle and bones. Jaskier has to stop a shiver from shaking through him.

“Ready?” Geralt rumbles. The words are almost lost over the hissing of the portal.

Jaskier looks back to it. The hue of the portal glows on his face. He can feel the heat from it, magic sizzling the air. He breathes, letting his lungs fill and push against his ribcage. When he lets it out, he lulls in the quiet settling in his mind.

Something still gnaws at him, in the back of his mind. A voice that’s not entirely his own, but one that doesn’t stay when Geralt’s nearby. They’ll talk. Geralt promised. He’s useless at it; evidence stretching out through all of the years they’ve known each other. But he promised that during the long winter nights, when the sun vanishes and some worry if it will ever rise again, they’ll take up a place by a hearth in the main halls, or in one of their rooms, and _talk_.

One of Jaskier’s fingers stretches out, brushing against Geralt’s. His breath catches in his throat. He hooks their fingers together, nothing solid, but just enough to hold on. He turns away from the portal, looking to the Witcher. He smiles. “Ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be 1k-2k. Somewhere, I found Plot™ and I couldn't stop writing despite the fact I have two inflamed tendons in one of my hands and it physically hurt to write/type 💀😂
> 
> *Not Beta'd

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs:  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter:  
> @better_marksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


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